I bow & grovel in the shadow of such lovely invective as this, which appeared just yesterday on Sadly, No!
In terms of art, it ought to be said that the greatness of a Pastor
Swank, of a Mark Noonan or a John Hinderaker — the quality which raises
them above the howling roil of right-wing authoritarians, of spite
retailers, blowhards, closeted gay ministers, cranks, Bible lickers, of
nerds-gone-bad, of flag humpers, pseudo-intellectuals, chair-based
saucer investigators, of stern-bodiced rape fantasists, of
millennarians, Know-Nothings, Free Silver enthusiasts, jingoes, Oreos,
Foursquare McPhersonites, splinter Baptists, pseudo-Methodists,
Pentecostal highway parishioners, of cynical purveyors of
purpose-driven things and of AMWAY, of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable
Compound, Graham’s miracle flour, Kellogg’s abstinence-promoting Corn
Flake Cereal, or other products unevaluated by the FDA that are not
intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease; of Goldwater
idolators, ‘Scoop Jackson liberals,’ McCarthyites, Yankees fans,
Likudniks, the mean of spirit, dupes, chumps, Dartmouth grads,
shysters, four-flushers, dog-kickers, self-dealers, Professors of X at
James Madison University, wingnut welfare skillet-lickers and
beak-wetters; of wingnut welfare high-rollers, pimps, queens,
bathroom-stall fellators, and generational dependents; of certain
former or current WWF/WWE personalities and/or karate movie stars
and/or minor Baldwin brothers, convicted Watergate felons, washed-up
Red Sox pitchers, and/or 1970s Detroit-area rock musicians, as well as unnh and gaah, not to mention hunnh — isn’t solely in making up things that aren’t true, but often in fact in forgetting things that are.
Like Bluto Blutarsky at the beginning of Act 3, it doesn't make any sense, but you don't want to stop them when they're on a roll...